Amplified by the still of night, the book opened -- a gust of wind.

When we move apart, she looks at me again, till a small tear lifts itself up in her eye. It trips out to find a wrinkle and follows it down.

The only thing worse than a boy who hates you: a boy that loves you.

So many humans. So many colors.

Sometimes I just survive. But sometimes I stand on the rooftop of my existence, arms stretched out, begging for more.

I wanted to drown inside a woman in the feeling and drooling of the love I could give her. I wanted her pulse to crush me with its intensity. That's what I wanted. That's what I wanted myself to be.

It's a lot easier, she realized, to be on the verge of something than to actually be it. This would still take time.